


Care Package

by pudgy puk (deumion)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: M/M, Male Solo, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Porn Logic, Sex Toys, Tentacles, White Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:21:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23146894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deumion/pseuds/pudgy%20puk
Summary: no seriously why the fuck is aymeric getting tentacle gifts in the mail for white day?!!?!!?!!?!?!
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Estinien Wyrmblood
Comments: 33
Kudos: 135





	Care Package

_My dearest friend._

Estinien’s hand twitched as he wrote the sentence, but mercifully the ink didn’t blot this time. There were, frankly, enough balled-up sheets of paper littering his Kugane inn room—half discarded from the blots, half from Estinien reconsidering his language, his tone...

_I pray this finds you well._

Was that too formal? No, it was just... just the most basic of etiquette, one of three tidbits that had managed to stick during his ill-fated “proper education” (the other two were “shake hands with the right hand, not your dominant hand” and “the rosewater dish is for hand-washing, not drinking”). Fury, but he hoped Aymeric would appreciate this.

_The Far East is full of wonders. If I could do them justice in words, I would. As I cannot, please accept this gift._

This was the point where a lot of embryonic letters had been discarded—the point where emotions became rawest. Where Estinien’s lack of grace and delicacy became something that could shame him, where his failure at things other than dragonslaying became clear to him as a weakness... where he found himself thinking he should just let Aymeric be, let him thrive and not trouble him with his attention.

_It is a local delight, and I think my new favorite. If—_

Estinien drew in a deep breath through gritted teeth. The temptation to not just throw out this letter but the entire idea of sending one to Aymeric was overwhelming—but, damn it all, he was Azure Dragoon. Temptation was something he mastered, as was fear. If he could face down Nidhogg’s horde, he could write a damned letter and send someone he loved a gift, and even if he couldn’t write... _those words_...

_—you thought of me while enjoying it, I would consider it a favor._

There. Hurriedly he signed his name, folded it up and shoved it into an envelope (it tore slightly, but he ignored that). If he didn’t have to look at it, he was less likely to decide to call the whole thing off, which was both tempting and _absurd_ , he berated himself. It was a gift. Even if he meant it _that way_ , Aymeric likely probably almost certainly wouldn’t pick up on that from the letter—or from the nature of the gift. It wasn’t like Estinien was sending him roses or chocolates, after all.

Stalking out of his inn room (because if he didn’t swagger and glower he would quail and sneak, which was unacceptable to Estinien), he made for the market stalls. A ponze of that delicious squid ( _ika_ , the Hingans called it), he would have wrapped up, the letter tied to it, and sent off to Ishgard, and then two more ponzes for him to enjoy on a rooftop, pretending to brood, instead of pining.

* * *

A fortnight later, Estinien’s gift arrived at its destination.

Arriving home late, Lord Speaker and Commander Aymeric de Borel almost dropped an armful of papers when his butler told him a parcel from Estinien awaited him upstairs.

“From _Estinien_?” The man seemed to be allergic to keeping in touch at all since he left Ishgard—that now he’d sent not only communication but a _souvenir_ —

“We were surprised too, my lord,” the butler said mildly. “But it is definitely his handwriting.” And being that Estinien’s chocotracks were unmistakeable... “I assume you will not wish to be disturbed?”

“No—Yes— _Thank you_ —“ Aymeric’s imagination was working so fast he barely processed what his patient servant was saying—he had the presence of mind to hand over his paperwork, and just barely noticed the little indulgent smile his butler wore before he was racing up the staircase.

His butler, and all the staff at the Manor knew—but they also knew discretion. For the Lord Speaker of Ishgard to pine for their errant dragoon—it wouldn’t ruin him, but such rumors would be terribly unseemly to him with the general populace, and absolutely mortifying if the object of his affection found out. Estinien didn’t reciprocate his feelings (in part because, Aymeric sometimes thought, Estinien wouldn’t recognize a romantic sentiment if his life depended on it), and of this Aymeric was certain. What would be best for him in the long term would be to get over his _infatuation_ , and not moon over his gift, whatever it was, like a schoolboy with a locket portrait.

And judging by that indulgent smile, his butler knew as well as Aymeric did that such a thing was not going to happen.

Instead, he drew it out. He poured himself a glass of wine before even looking at his desk, he changed from finery to his finest dressing gown before he sat down, he savored the moment with a more pleasurable anticipation than he had felt in a long time. Even though the package was rumpled, covered in postage except for where it was covered in Estinien’s scrawling, Aymeric gazed at it as if it were as lovely as the actual man, until he couldn’t wait any longer. With his best letter-opener (a blunted replica of famous Ishgardian steel), he cut the strings, and the letter fell into his lap.

It was brief. Aymeric hadn’t expected otherwise, and he read it over and over—waiting for the frisson of delight that went down his spine each time to fade (it didn’t). “His dearest friend”—Fury, but from Estinien, such sentiment was intimate in the extreme (or so a part of him tried to convince himself). And whatever this gift was (food? it sounded like food), he would gladly think of Estinien while enjoying it.

(He usually thought of Estinien while enjoying himself, but that was a matter for later).

Turning his attention to the parcel, Aymeric began to cut it open, and his first clue that the night was about to take another unexpected turn was that it _wiggled_. He almost dropped his letter-opener in surprise, freezing still, as if he thought he might have jarred it himself. The package stilled. Cautiously (and feeling a little silly), Aymeric poked it with his letter-opener. It remained immobile. Breathing out his relief, he cut it further—and this time there was no mistake, it was _definitely wiggling_!

“Fury’s _teats_ , Estinien—“ What had he been _thinking_ , sending something alive through the post?! Discarding caution, Aymeric simply ripped at the packaging until its contents were laid bare: A disembodied tentacle (yet the site of its probable severing seemed to bear no wound), with a round red tip, well over a fulm from end to end and quivering aggressively.

_What the **hells**._

Aymeric stared blankly at the... tentacle, face a mask of pure incomprehension. What kind of gift...? Clearly he was wrong about it being food. Was it—a joke? Was this some kind of Far Eastern prank? If it was, the humor in it went _far_ over his head. He poked it with the letter opener and it flinched away, then—Aymeric wanted to say it _stood up_ , absurd as it was—it moved itself upright, balanced on its thicker end. As he watched, the tentacle extended its round and clearly prehensile red tip towards him, in a manner that was most definitely curious. And because Aymeric could not deny his own curiosity, he carefully reached for it, one finger extended, still gamely trying to figure out what Estinien could have meant by calling it a delight, his favorite, a—

The tentacle tip wrapped itself around his outstretched fingers and began to pump _very_ suggestively. Aymeric’s jaw dropped.

“There’s no way this can...” Aymeric trailed off as he went beet-red from ear to ear. Had Estinien really sent him a sex toy?!

His mind raced. Just earlier he had been dead certain whatever fondness Estinien felt for him was platonic in nature—but if this was... well, what it seemed to be, and what it surely was acting like, the way it stroked his hand... He must have been wrong. And recalling the letter, Estinien had written around the purpose of his gift most circuitously, only saying that—that he wanted Aymeric to enjoy it while thinking of him.

...Goodness, but Estinien was even kinkier than his wildest imaginings.

But if the object of his ardor was ordering him to pleasure himself with a specific toy while thinking of him—Aymeric wouldn’t admit it to anyone else, but that was... more than a little exciting. Taking a deep breath, steeling his resolve, Aymeric lifted the tentacle from his desk.

It wouldn’t do, he thought giddily to himself, to have this on the bed, or even the carpet, for whatever substance coated it would surely make a mess of them (it wasn’t unpleasant to the touch, it wasn’t slimy or sticky, but as slick as the finest oil he owned, as if this were _made for_ —). But there was some space of hardwood between his fireplace and where the carpet began, and that would be perfect. Carefully setting it down, Aymeric stepped back (it turned towards him, and if Aymeric were entirely in his right mind he would have wondered how it possessed any faculty to know or perceive such things...) and untied the sash of his dressing gown, letting it fall open. Already his cock was half-hard, and maybe (almost certainly) it was just his imagination, but he thought he detected a reciprocal _stiffening_ in the tentacle.

He lowered himself to sit on the floor, and only when he spread his legs did the tentacle begin to inch towards him. It was _very_ well-trained, Aymeric had time to think, before it was upon him, touching him, and he only barely managed not to cry out. The sensation, as it coiled its tip around his cock, was _indescribable_. The closest thing he could possibly have thought to compare it to was a massive tongue—the wetness, the blend of give and strength—but even that was inadequate. Tongues weren’t prehensile, couldn’t—couldn’t _coil_ and _ripple_ and oh, Gods, _squeeze_...

But—and this thought made him quiver with the thrill of it—he was being disobedient to think like this. Estinien had told Aymeric to think of _him_ while he enjoyed himself, and Aymeric would gladly do anything Estinien asked of him.

Estinien—to be completely honest, the confirmation that Estinien liked giving orders was itself enough to make his toes curl (entirely separate from how the tentacle was rubbing itself against his balls, oh _gods_ those were _suckers_ —), imagining what other orders he might give. Suck him under a table? Bend over his desk in the Congregation? In an alley behind the Forgotten Knight? _Yes_ , Aymeric chanted, yes, all of them _yes yes yes_ —

And even as surprisingly pleasurable as the tentacle was, Estinien would be even better. Not necessarily for skill, but because of the warmth of his presence—mmmgh, he’d give anything to have Estinien’s strong chest to rest against now, to have his arms to steady him, his voice in his ear even as—oh, seven _hells_ —as his toy grew bored with Aymeric’s cock, as it began to investigate his entrance—

“Aaaah—“ Gods above, but to be fucked—fucked by—

Aymeric had never been fully sure whether Estinien preferred to take or be taken (or indeed if Estinien preferred men or women or both or neither). But—well, there were only so many hints Aymeric could take from Estinien sending him a massive phallic toy, and the message seemed loud and clear: Estinien wanted to fuck Aymeric, to push him down, pin him, dominate him—

(Gods _above_ Halone in her _halls_ he couldn’t begin to describe what it felt like to have half that tentacle inside him, writhing as much as he was, shaking and squirming and _desperate_ )

—Estinien wanted to fuck Aymeric and Aymeric wanted to let him, Aymeric wanted everything and anything he could _imagine_ —he wanted his face pushed into pillows while his arse was pushed high in the air, he wanted Estinien’s hands fisted in his hair, pulling, he wanted Estinien’s cock—his lithe, strong body—his hair, his face, his smile—his _love_ —

Entirely forgetting discretion, Aymeric nearly screamed his pleasure as the tentacle at last brought him to climax, his seed coating it as it withdrew itself from him. Immediately, Aymeric stood from the floor (paying no nevermind to the slickness between his legs and how they trembled) and staggered back to his desk. Artlessly he shoved the remnants of the parcel to the floor, pulled a sheet of paper and a pen from his drawer and, gasping, tried to compose himself.

_My dearest Estinien..._

**Author's Note:**

> i demand an explanation square enix...........


End file.
